


Play Upon the Lyre of Heartstrings

by GothicGirl_1331



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27951677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicGirl_1331/pseuds/GothicGirl_1331
Summary: ”Tell me.”Hecan’t. It’s all too much, too fast, but gods, hewants, even though he shouldn’t. It’s one of the few things these days that he’s truly afraid of.“Jaskier, I-““Geralt.”Fuck.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

Four years into their walk on the Path, Geralt comes to a conclusion that ought to have been way more obvious much sooner. Jaskier, however, cannot stand one more awkward, stilted, four day trek to another tiny cluster of miserable shacks, with an unusually grouchy Witcher, and decides to fix the easier parts of it, until his ill-tempered friend clams up on him at the pivot of the conversation.

He does **not** take well to being ignored.

“Really, don’t strain your voice now, Geralt.” The Witcher huffs slightly, as annoyed as he ever could show. They’d- not really grown close over the last four years, and now just setting out on their fifth, but it’d been a good two and a quarter years since they’d last gone to blows. He has to admit, Jaskier’s fancy clothes did a lot to belie the young man’s strength. Geralt couldn’t really belt him like he could if he were fighting with Eskel, or Lambert, or any of the others from Kaer Morhen, but it had been satisfying nonetheless. “Truly, you’ve just been chattering my ears off for _weeks_ now, you **must** have a sore throat!”

“What do you _want,_ Jaskier? We’re not remotely close to-“

The flash of his sword is almost like a strike of static heat lightning, and Jaskier barely has time to drop to the ground with his lute; he can hear Geralt’s sword sinking into something with a sickeningly _**wet**_ crack, and then he’s up and moving again, the silver dagger he’d paid too much coin for fisted tightly in white knuckles.

For his part, the Witcher could easily dispatch a couple monsters just as he could half a dozen men, and this wasn’t any different, but to _see it_ up close!

Geralt was _**never**_ very detailed in his retellings, but _this_ is pure potential; by the time Geralt had finished them, Jaskier was half through a new song, and working on another by the time they reached Crosswarren.

The town- a tiny cluster of a few houses, two shops, a mill, a desperate, tired looking inn, and a smithy- was barely settling in for the night, and though it was too late for the bardling to squawk up the coin for their room, they could afford a room and a bath, Geralt letting Jaskier take the tub first; he’d rinsed off in the closest stream to where they were attacked by the endrega, but he still wouldn’t resign the man to bathing in monster remnants. He does have some decency.

Even if it was mostly because he’d finally seen _how_ the young man looked at him. Well- had seen it, and realized what it meant. He’d always excused the undertones of wanting in Jaskier’s scent as just a part of the bard’s profile, until earlier that day in the stream.

He mindlessly unsaddles Roach and brushes her down as the few moments from that afternoon replay in his head; he’d practically felt the way Jaskier’s heart had picked up on the bank with Roach, but not any signs of danger. He’d still turned his head enough to cast a brief look over his shoulder through slitted eyes as he rinsed the monstrous insects’ blood off him, nearly freezing at the way those nearly unnaturally intense blue eyes were _watching him_ with an expression usually reserved for a pretty barmaid or a high noblewoman; sometimes it’d be aimed at far more youthful men than himself, too, but he’d never seen the Bard watch him like that before.

He tried to ignore the way Jaskier’s scent was slowly changing, trying to brush it off as the young man just trying to keep an eye on him so he can get his sword to him as swift as he was able if need be. His slow heartbeat kept him from belying that he’d caught the other _staring at him_ like a- like he _**wanted**_ something, but he still hadn’t said much after rising from the water and going to dry and dress, trying to ignore the strong and growing scent of arousal from the bard, but unlike many times before now, Jaskier kept his hands to himself.

It would have been so much easier to deal with then, away from the prying eyes of gods only knew who; they’d done it before out in the wilds, but they only ever went so far. He’d been on his knees, with the bard’s ~~surprisingly well-endowed~~ cock pumping down his throat more than a couple times, or between his legs as they rutted against each other, but that’d never been more than satiating the chatty little prick so he could get some sleep. They didn’t kiss, they didn’t hold each other.

_So **why** had Jaskier **looked at him like that?** Like someone he would have pursued?_

“Why’s he got to be so damned confusing.” He mumbled, closing his eyes to drop his head against Roach’s shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’d be so much easier to be human...”

He threw the stable boy a few extra coins to get his faithful mare an apple before leaving her in her stall. Back up in the room, the water is tepid, but still useable, so he dips his hand beneath the surface and casts Igni, bringing the water up to a steam again.

“You know, that’s probably what I envy you the most is being able to reheat a bath at will.”

He can’t help but laugh at the statement, and Jaskier’s smile brightens the room. “An _actual_ laugh? Must be in high spirits tonight indeed!”

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He flicks some water at him, almost **jovial** , turning away before disrobing slowly, all too aware of the heated gaze practically devouring him from the other bed. It felt like too much and too little. By the time he’d sunk into the water, Jaskier was off the bed and perched behind him on the only stool in the room, taking it upon himself before the Witcher could have asked.

“So, there was a contract on the notice board downstairs; some sort of beast snatching folk off the roadways to the west of here. Ealdorman’ll be here in the morning to discuss it.” He worked a small amount of oil into warming up, pushing Geralt forward slightly so he could work the knots from his back.

“Any word on what kind of beast?” He’s glad to be able to blame the pinking of his skin on the hot water and not the strong hands on his back, or the still very obviously unsatisfied arousal draping itself around the usually cool, sweet scent of the bard. When he moves to get up, a pale hand flies to his wrist, keeping him there with a gentle pressure as Geralt turns over to face him, looking up at him.

“Geralt...”

“I know you want something.” His voice is low and quiet. “I can smell the desire dripping off you, Jask; let me-“

“Not tonight.” He strokes the back of the slayer’s wrist with his thumb. “When we’re in a more... inviting town. Thin walls, and not to mention, that gossipy barmaid would have half the town knowing about it before dawn.”

“Six people isn’t a lot, truthfully.” He looks up at him. “I could feel it when you were watching me earlier. At the stream.”

Jaskier’s face doesn’t change, but the seconds of panic in his eyes and the sickly tinge of anxiety that tainted the rainwater and cedar scent he’d grown to like.

In one motion, the Witcher is on his knees, facing the other with intensely focused eyes. “I could smell your scent changing the longer you stared at me; it surprised me that you actually could keep your hands off, at least sometimes.”

Jaskier sighs, running his fingers through snowy tresses. “‘S not the same way you’re thinking; but like I said,” he gently but firmly pushes him back to sitting. “A later time with a better inn.”

“Promises, promises.” He laughs lightly, relaxing into the side of the tub. “But we’d have an easier time of it if I didn’t like hearing you.”

The bard laughs, working soap through the other man's hair. "The man who tells me to shut up the most likes listening to me? What an interesting oxymoron."


	2. Patience

The next morning, Geralt met with the Ealdorman, sitting across the table from the old man.

"Tell me more about the beast; contract you posted wasn't very informative."

"The attacks started about a month ago; first one taken was the miller's daughter, then the smith's boys. Got the fisherman's wife, and their little'un. Last attack was my boy." The man takes a long drink from the cup in his hand. "Always after dark, and it leaves the corpses up like a display."

"What condition were the bodies in when you found them?"

"Stomachs ripped open; entrails strewn about like party garlands. Hard to forget the sight. They were all found in the field edged by the swamp, gods know what lurks in there." He tosses a sack of coin on the table in front of the Witcher. "Three hundred and twenty gold pieces, pooled by me and the other victims' families. Drag it back here and let them see the corpse."

"Not the most usual request, but consider it done." He nods, picking up the money. "I'll return by sundown tomorrow. If I don't, you can collect your money back from the bard."

~

The field he'd been directed to was east of the village proper, and as he walked towards the place the last body had been found, kneeling by the bloodstained earth. Bone fragments around the gore showed the violence in the end of the young man's life, but most were too small for him to get a look at the teeth marks, save part of the sternum. Long nicks in the whole part, with smaller ones that came from crushing jaws.

 _Werewolf, or maybe an ekimmara? Or- fleder, more likely. They're all messy eaters._ He takes a closer look at the bone, but nothing else came to mind. Circling back around to the town, he went to their room and grabbed his bag of alchemy supplies before going to set up in the field. He started a small fire to brew the vampire oil for his blade, and, for the off-chance he wound up as its meal, a dose of Black Blood, as well as a werewolf decoction. Once his silver was oiled and the potions bottled, there was nothing to do but wait.

¬

It was no sooner than the exact moment the last rays of sun made their pass over him when he heard the creaking of the trees as the creature leapt between the boughs. He stood up and braced himself, sword at the ready. The felder stopped and sized him up, readying itself to pounce. Once it was airborne, Geralt rolled aside, casting Yrden at the beast's feet, then Igni at its faceyese, buying an extra second to slash at it before its flailing arm sent him about ten feet east, into the solid trunk of a living oak.

"That wasn't very nice of you-" hauling himself up roughly, he stood his ground and popped the top on the potion bottle. "Come and get me, then, you ugly fucking bastard."

He barely managed to chug down the small bottle before it was on him, bringing the silver blade down forcefully enough on one of its arms to sever the limb on the bicep, growling as it took a chunk out of his poisoned flesh; before it could take a second helping, the length of the blade pierced through its jaw and cranial cavity. The Witcher waited until it stopped twitching before shoving the corpse to the side and raising his sword, cleaving its head from its shoulders in one move, before his knees gave out under the stress of the potion and his injuries. The Black Blood scorched through his veins, and he could feel the fever of it as if it was burning him alive, but could do little against it but ride it out.

~

It was pure chance Jaskier came across Geralt when he did; had it been the village boys he could see coming, he doubted they would be as kindly to his companion. He pulled the half-conscious, fully delirious man into the treeline, under the thickest coverage he could find before going to secure the carcass, and the man's swords. Once he'd made it back to him, the bard set about cleaning him up as best he could away from the inn and bandaged his arm, spreading his cloak over them both as well as possible, trying to ease the shivering from the other.

"Oh, dear Witcher, you overdid it again." He sighs softly, taking up the steel blade to keep watch. "We'll just have to stick it out a little longer."

The night sky faded slowly to dawn, though it was still grey and misty, with low hanging clouds shading everything. The black veins around Geralt's eyes retreated just as slowly, and the shivers slunk off with them. It still struck him how entirely absurd it was that they'd payed for two nights and not used the second one, but he couldn't really protest this much. The nights in the elements were... well, fitting, in a way, for them. He wasn't sure of how his Witcher felt about him, but he couldn't think of any bed in any city that he would choose over having the other man next to him, under the openness of the wilderness.

 _Remember what you promised him, though; a proper inn, and all the wonderful implications._ He shakes his head slightly, almost with a laugh. He did have a- not quite a grand scheme, but a simple ploy, waiting for them in Oxenfurt, when they made it there. He'd called in a favor to get it in motion, but he felt well enough about it. A decent room with a good bed, good food and drink, and, more importantly, **_privacy_**.

He looked down at the sleeping man and brushed some hair back from his face, shaking him gently by his uninjured shoulder. "Geralt, c'mon; you need a proper bath, and I need to clean up that bite."

It took a few moments of repeating similar words and motions before the Witcher opened his eyes, grimacing as he sat up. "When did you get here-?"

"Couple hours before sunrise; you're lucky I made it first, instead of the boys from the bar." He grabs the sheath for the steel and slides the blade home, setting it back by its twin; tying the corpse to Roach went quickly with the two of them working the ropes, and they made their way back to the square.

¬

Jaskier left him alone to bathe, thankfully; he didn't mind the man's presence, but he was sore, and needed to see the extent of the damage before the bard set upon him in a fuss. This life isn't a soft one, and there's always new wounds, but that didn't keep him from clambering around for all kinds of poultices and creams and astringents. He scrubbed the mud and gore away, mindful of the raw, red channel the felder had carved into his arm.

"It'll be a hell of a scar; brought back the stuff you asked for from the healer." Jaskier's voice cut through the quiet as the door opened and shut, the satchel clinking on the table. "I know you're a seasoned monster slayer and all, but that was stupid last night."

"I got the job done." He steps out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist.

"You almost got eaten, you mean." He ignores the pointed look towards where his arm had been mauled. "I know what Black Blood does and how it works."

"That's beside the poi-" he stops dead when he sees the look on the other's face. "What's that for? I'm still alive."

"You're an idiot. An ass-backwards, honest to Melitele idiot, Geralt." He rolls his eyes, pushing him to sit in the chair by the desk while he dressed his arm properly. "It'll be fine, but it's got to be changed daily. And you-" he flicks him in the back of the neck. "Are not allowed to go off on your own until I'm confident you won't seek to get yourself killed."

"And make me worry about keeping you alive in one piece?" Geralt huffs.

"We'll worry about keeping each other out of trouble, just like usual." Packing away the supplies, he stood and pointed towards the bed. "Get some rest, I'll get you some food."


	3. Don't Ruin This on Me

They spent a few days in Crosswarren, until Geralt was satisfied with being able to hold his sword somewhat steadily despite the wound, and then made their way up, skirting around the local lord's castle before making camp in a shallow ravine. There was enough of a recess in the apex of it to lay the bedrolls out of the wind, which was more than enough for the Witcher, who barely bothered removing most of his armor before lying down.

"Tired already?" Jaskier sounded amused, his eyes bright in the light of the tiny fire. "We've hardly done anything today."

"Days off are rare enough without your ideas flitting about." He laughs slightly. "What's turning over in that dense head of yours? I can practically hear the strain you're under."

"Mm, wouldn't that defeat the purpose of making you wait, though?" He rifled through his bag, pulling out a fresh set of bandages. "Sit up so I can change that."

He pulls himself up to his knees, shrugging out of his shirt to bare the wound fully, noticing how the other seemed to follow the hem like a dog would a bone. _Something for later._

The bard worked quickly, seemingly happy with how he was healing. "It'll be slower than you're used to, I guess, but it's faster than most men would heal." He packed away everything once again, stretching out on his side. "Would you leave this life if you could?"

"And do what, be a baker? A fishmonger?" Geralt laughs. "If I ever did leave it without a funeral pyre, I think I'd be quite lost. And poor."

"We're already poor. Don't think that would matter much." He smiles. "But you didn't say no."

"Didn't say yes, either; it's been well over a hundred years since I thought of being anything other than what I am, and the mutations I took on don't exactly make me... 'acceptable' company."

"Acceptable and likeable are two very different types of company, my dear Geralt. Acceptable company is hardly striking, after all."

"I wouldn't really say I'm all that likeable, either; reputation and personality are quite the precedents." He shrugs, sinking back down on his stomach with his arm under his head. "You get used to that, at least."

"I like you just fine; seems to me other people prefer to know the gossip rather than the subject." There's a softness to his voice, almost undetectable. "Doesn't mean you're any less worthwhile to be with."

"Then I think you're just as strange as I am. I don't think I've ever encountered someone like you- well, a regular human in general- who'd rather hang out with monster hunters and witches than regular people." He laughs slightly. "Most people have more self-preservation."

"Most people also live their lives in one tiny little backwater village with a monster infestation, praying for someone to come along and handle it so they can finally leave." The bard shrugs. "I just happened to get... well, bored enough to get myself disowned. Can't be forced back home if they don't want to see you ever again. Not like there's much to miss, either."

Silence lapsed between them, the sounds of the forest filling the empty spaces; Geralt shifted onto his side, looking at the other man with a sort of candidness. "I think I would have preferred to be a healer, if I could have walked away from all this. I used to tend to the medical gardens at Kaer Morhen. Was pretty good at keeping it alive even through the winters." He glances at the fire. "I'd still be helping people, but I wouldn't have to kill anyone."

"'S not a bad profession. Allows for a quiet life." Jaskier reaches out, just barely touching him. "I'd like to think even if you were able to pick something else, I'd have still met you. You may think fate is a load of shit, but it's got a funny way of always being right."

"Maybe we would have." He curls his fingers under the bard's just a bit, closing his eyes. "Used to be I'd lose my mind thinking of other lives to lead, but now... I've simply settled into this one, in all it's disparity and hedonism. Just feels... familiar enough to be complacent."

"Complacency isn't all it's talked up to be. Stiff barriers and stiffer repercussions, no true allowance for the self... it's terribly suffocating. I'd almost rather a noose." There's a breezy sounding laugh. "But I suppose it's all up to your perspective to decide that, huh?"

"Mm, in a way." He peers at him from under hooded lids, finally giving in to the tiredness pulling at him. "Goodnight, Jaskier."

"Goodnight, Geralt." The brunet smiles slightly, releasing his hand.

~

The next morning dawns cold, as most spring mornings do; Jaskier barely stirs as the Witcher builds the fire up and makes a quick meal out of their recently bolstered provisions, barely rubbing the sleep from his eyes as a waterskin and plate are put in front of him.

They ate in silence before packing away and heading back to the trail, the two of them walking with Roach on a lead. It's fairly quiet until they near the bridge, where plenty of commoners fleeing the ever growing rumors of Nilfgaardian forces were camped out, waiting for passage.

They gave the pair a wide berth as they made their way through and across with little fuss from the Temerian soldiers, crossing the border of the Pontar to Redanian lands. They got similar treatment from the Redanians, and found shelter in a small inn with a single, tired owner at the counter, who allowed them a single room at the end of the building's third floor.

They'd barely gotten through the door before the bard had thrown himself on the bed with a laugh, kicking off his boots. "So- where exactly are we headed? Or are we not really heading anywhere?"

Geralt drops down on the end of the bed, laying his armor and boots in a neat pile. "S'posed to meet Lambert and Eskel in Oxenfurt before the Solstice, but other than that, no, there's not really a destination."

"How long ahead of the Solstice?" The bard perks up. "Because there's a- not really a _manor._ per say, but a house I own, on the northern most edge of the city. If you would rather save the cost of lodgings."

"The eternal wanderer actually has a physical house of his own? How mundane." He laughs softly. "Maybe I will take you up on that offer. The inns in the cities are rather... overwhelming." He moved up the bed and laid down, closing his eyes. "And maybe a day or two before; still almost three months out, if the equinox is this week's end."

"I have to live _somewhere_ when you head north for the winter." There's a slight, exasperated laugh. "But, how about it?" 

Fingertips traced along a faded scar down his forearm. "Get a bit of a break in, build up your potion supplies and whatever else it is you need, sleep in a real bed for a while without having to spend the coin... if you can stand me for that long, anyways."

He rolls over to face him, grabbing his arm lightly, sliding down to grip his hand. "You've grown on me a bit, even with your incessant drive to bring me an uncomfortable amount of fame. So- consider it a yes, as long as you don't try to poison me."

The look the bard gives him brings a laugh out, and the other smacks him lightly, rolling his eyes. "I honestly don't know why I bother with you sometimes."

"Because you think I'm attractive, and I put up with your horrible jokes and bawdry tavern jigs." He smiles a bit. Just barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it's a smile all the same. "Not to mention you seem to quite like it when I'm choking mys-"

"None of that!" Jaskier slaps his free hand over the other's mouth, cheeks flushing just a bit. "But yes, I do like to watch that particular sight when it's permissible. Asshole."

The Witcher nips at his palm, as playful as the bard imagines he could get, before moving his hand aside, inching over towards him a bit. "I still haven't forgotten that promise of yours."

"Afraid I'll forget? Because it's highly unlikely." He twists free from the other's hands and pushes him flat against the mattress, not quite pinning him, but not giving him much room to move, either. "I've got plans, don't you worry that pretty head of yours about it."

"Pretty, huh? That's a new one." He reaches up, resting his hand on his thigh, lending to the false sense of control Jaskier had by keeping still until he'd moved near enough that it took nothing at all for him to close the gap, his other hand threading through his stupidly soft hair, and he's not really sure if the little sigh as they parted was from himself or the bard. "Your plans had better be worth it, bard."

"They will be, dear Witcher, rest assured." He lays back down, humming slightly. "I wouldn't torture myself like this if I wasn't confident."

"You _say_ that, but my experiences beg to differ."

"Shush and go to sleep; you're so tired, you're practically delirious."


End file.
